Swimming in the Sea of Transformation

Travelling has a way of making time become elastic,
of stretching and looping around on itself.
Days have lost their meaning,
as one runs into another, into another, into another
and suddenly we’ve left the month of May.

Far from home, from the familiar, from obligations,
immersed in a language whose words I understand,
but fly around inside my head and too often get stuck
on my tongue when I try to speak.

But still I try.

Still, I feel my way into imagining
what it would be like to live here,
to be born here, to be French.

As I walk through the streets of St. Rémy,
down the narrow, limestone streets,
past the windows of colourful cotton dresses
that beg to be tried on.

Beg to be bought to better clothe myself,
to costume myself,
to make myself French,

I look up at the gathering grey clouds,
purse my lips and scowl the way I saw the shop ladies do.

Ooh là là!

A thunderstorm is threatening,
is almost upon us!
We must walk quickly,
heads down,

Quick! Quick! Quick!
Before we’re caught in the downpour.

I talk to myself as I walk,
practicing French phrases,

Still somewhat incredulous that I’m here.
Still curling into the open-ended question of —
Why?
What will I learn?
How will I be changed?

Because one thing I know for sure —

Is that I’m swimming in the sea of change.
Of transformation.

And when I’m in the middle of that sea,
Soaking in the salt water of all that has come before,
And all that is yet to come –

I’m being undone.
Taken apart.
Dismantled,
Disassembled,
Unstructured.

Every cell and fibre of my Being is dancing in this energy.

This is why I travel.
Feeling the expansion of my heart
Slipping through the sliding doors of time

Come with me.

Red Threads of Connection

When I finally open my eyes, I’m sprawled in the middle of the bed, covers thrown off and I have to shimmy to reach my phone on the bedside table. It’s just past 7am and with the window and shutters pretty much closed, it’s dark and quiet. And hot. The air conditioning hasn’t been turned on yet.

I’ve been waking early these past days, just as dawn begins to creep through the cracks in the half-open shutters, but it’s a delicious kind of awakening. The kind where you don’t have to get up. Where you can lie still, keep your eyes shut and luxuriate, luxuriate, luxuriate, swimming in the wake of dreamland.

After I open the window wide and clip the shutters open, I hop back into bed, fluff my pillows into a pile and lean back, closing my eyes, wondering if I can fall back asleep.

A cool breeze now blows through the window, along with the small chorus of birdsong. I wish I knew what kind of bird they were, or could at least see them, but they remain hidden to me.

Instead of falling asleep I drop into remembering my zoom with Kate and the kids yesterday evening. Hazel holds her arm up to show me the red friendship bracelet still tied around her wrist. I finger the matching one twice-looped around my own wrist and slip into the afternoon we made them – on our last Nana/Hazel day before I left.

That afternoon, as we sat side-by-side on my chaise lounge braiding together Hazel said, “I wish these bracelets had magic powers, and that we could talk to each other through them.” Five weeks of being apart is a lifetime to a six-year-old.

“They do, in a way,” I answered her, “Whenever you need me, just hold your hand over the bracelet and feel me in your heart. We can talk to each other that way – through our hearts.”

And then I tell her that the colour red symbolizes our fertility —

“Fertility?” Hazel interrupts, her brow furrowed.

And I talk about the seeds of our imagination and creativity. About our courage and passion. About what it means to be female, to be a vessel of feminine energy. To remember the truth of our hearts.

Because the power of being a female encompasses more than growing babies (although that’s a pretty amazing thing!)

And as Hazel’s little fingers weave and weave and weave I tell her about the number three. About how it’s considered a perfect number – the number of harmony, wisdom and understanding. That three can also be body, mind and spirit. I tell her about the triad of Maiden, Mother and Chrone.

“That’s you, your mama and me,” I tell her, because even though she’s only six, she’s already walking the path of the power of the Maiden.

Then we tied the finished bracelets around each other’s wrists and practiced feeling into our hearts, into our own heart connection.

And aren’t we all connected?

Each and every one of us.

Each of us facets of the same divine source.

Each of us made from stardust and earth.

Meeting together in the space of our hearts.

I can hear Emilie unloading the dishwasher downstairs, so I pull on my bathrobe to go join her. Even though we’re here to give voice to Mary Magdalene, the dirty dishes still need attending to.

A Pilgrimage Begins

The limestone patio beyond the French doors in front of me are glistening in the rain. This is our first morning of what will be a month of mornings waking up in St. Rémy de Province. A month spent pretending that we’re French, eating croissants and baguettes while drinking tiny cups of coffee throughout the day and glasses of wine in the evening. (although my wine will be lemonade)

We’ve spent three days in Paris and already my body is telling me enough already with the gluten and the dairy! Today we go shopping for fruit and almond milk and gluten-free bread – just enough to temper the tastes from the many visits to the boulangeries.

My two dear friends and I are on a pilgrimage. We’re not walking the Camino with backpacks and blisters and only three pairs of underwear. We have six pieces of luggage between us, a mid-sized Peugeot, and many changes of shoes for our temperamental feet. One doesn’t have to punish the body, or lean towards the ascetic to be a pilgrim — a pilgrimage is made through travelling with intention.

We’ve journeyed to a distant and unfamiliar land on a spiritual quest. With each step (and yes, with each glass of wine, piece of baguette, and much joy and laughter) we will be circling closer to our own divinity, to the rising remembering.

Emilie, Diane and I have been planning this trip for years, long before Covid shut down the world, long before we began to journey virtually via zoom, sitting in place, going inward while watching a screen. Now, we are finally here with the scent of jasmine greeting us and red poppies growing wild along the roadways.

We depart early tomorrow morning to meet Véronique, our escort for the next four days. Who will guide us in the footsteps of Mary Magdalene. Not the Mary of the bible, edited to be subjected, to be pushed down, pushed away, and disempowered. Rather, the reclaimed Mary of feminine lore and legend.

We are here to deepen our learning, to uncover our buried knowing, and to bring home the empowered strength of the feminine. I am not religious, and it took me years to redefine my relationship with the word “God.”

I’m working to balance the force of the masculine and feminine energies that flow through me, that flow through all of us – to not throw the baby out with the bathwater. The Patriarchy has done so much damage to humanity and to the world, but we would do well to keep the positive aspects of the masculine. To keep the strength and the courage – and bring to it the fierceness of the compassionate heart. To bring the full force of the feminine heart to bear a much-needed counterweight.